Miss America Pageant: Disqualified.
Today started off all wrong.
Woke up on a love seat with cheese-its nestled into the scarf i still had on while foggy memories of asking Gronkrowski what his favorite ice cream flavor slink into my awareness. Something about sports players and vodka that really puts me off balance mentally.
Reflecting. I did save time getting ready since my boots were still on. reapplied mascara, grabbed a cliff bar and teetered down the 5, yes 5, flights of stairs to stand face to face with the dreaded st. Russell hill. it was raining. of course. 25 minutes later, i’m at the t stop being (and deserving every second) judged by every well rested monday morning commuter. Glance at my horoscope, which basically begs me to play the lottery. 2 losing scratch tickets, a pack of gum, and a mocha swirl coffee later and I slink into my desk to begin browsing through the never-ending influx of emails.
By noon, my self-loathing has taken new heights. As I enter espresso martini into mydailyplate.com and watch my cal intake hop up 500, I steam over with anxiety. I have a pageant in two weeks. And not just a here I am! crown me! pageant. This is miss freakin America. I’m going to be interrogated in a 10 minute interview! Answer a current events curve ball on stage! dazzle the audience with piano! bathing suit! evening gown! ugh. What was I thinking! This isn’t me! Not the Chelsea who haughtily scoffs at the donuts her boss leaves daily on her desk, not even licking off a single jimmy; someone who hasn’t listened to anything besides the drone of NPR on the radio for months; who stays in on Friday nights to analyze the Republican race before playing fur elise enough times to make Beethoven cringe in his coffin. I live breath eat (or rather starve) pageant preparation. Monday fittings, Tuesday piano, Wednesday interview coach, Sat and Sun walking practice. Not to mention the daily 530 AM workout sessions. But even the dedicated Chelsea can’t pass up an opportunity to celebrate victory with the Patriots players at a private table. So Iwent, and forced all my friends along too.
Hi Chelsea –I have some unfortunate news regarding your eligibility to compete in the Miss Easton pageant. While I was drafting the program book, I was reviewing each contestants information one last time and realized that due to your date of birth, you are not eligible to compete in the Miss America system any longer. Contestants must be no older than 24 years of age by December 31, 2012, as it states in section 2.2 of the contract. You will have already had your 25th birthday before that date. My apologies for not having caught this sooner.With regards to the check you submitted last night for the fashion show, I will place a check in the mail to you to reimburse you for those tickets. Please provide me with the best mailing address to which I should send it.
If you have any questions, feel free to contact me. Again, I apologize for this unfortunate situation and wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
And just like that my world collapsed. Okay, your life collapsed? aren’t you being dramatic Chelsea? i mean it’s not like you got an email saying your parents died in a tragic car crash. You can’t enter a dumb beauty pageant. Well you cynical, condescending unsympathetic jerks, I have been dreaming of being Miss America since my first pageant at 5 years old. Every recital, every good grade in school, every piano lesson has led me to this point. My travels, accomplishments, dreams, they’re all so intertwined with the pursuit of the Miss America crown. Yes, it’s silly. But this pageant could change my life; afford me the opportunity to go for my masters; heck with a 30k scholarship maybe i’ll go for a doctorate program. I could travel the country, impact the anti-bullying campaign with my peer mentor initiative, be a role model to millions. this title would launch me into the entertainment industry. Hosting opportunities, modeling, maybe acting. I am absolutely dying to leave a legacy, to make a far-reaching impact on the lives of many and to really make something of myself. You can scoff all you want, but there’s is nothing more genuine than my burning desire to dedicate myself whole-heartedly to the pursuit of the Miss America title.